Heated Rivalry (Game Changers Book 2)

November 2016—Montreal

“Hollander. What the fuck are you doing right now?”

Shane frowned into his phone. It was his teammate, J.J. Boiziau, calling. J.J. who always called and never texted.

“Nothing. Why?”

“Fuck that. Get your ass downtown. My buddy Francois, you know, the chef? He’s having a little after hours party at his restaurant, and get this, the cast of the fucking X-Squad movie they’re filming here is gonna be there!”

“All of them?”

“I don’t fucking know! Enough of them! There are some fucking hot chicks in that movie, man! Get the fuck in your car. You know the restaurant, right? Djon-Djon?”

“Uh. Sure. You took me there once, right?”

Shane’s first instinct was to thank J.J. for the invitation, but to tell him that he was going to stay in. But he knew from past experience that saying no to J.J. would result in hourly calls for the rest of the evening to let him know what he was missing.

Besides. It wasn’t like Shane had anything better to do. Nothing besides watching the end of a Boston hockey game on television and quietly panicking about the freshly unearthed feelings he was harboring for Ilya Rozanov. He could definitely use a distraction.

He put on some nicer clothes and drove himself to Mile End. It was late on a Tuesday night, and the streets were quiet. He found a parking spot near the restaurant and stepped out of his SUV into the cold.

Most things on the street were closed or closing, but he could see the lights on in the hip, Haitian-inspired restaurant on the corner. The sign on the door said the restaurant was closed, but the door opened for him before Shane even reached it.

Inside there was music and laughter and warmth. The small space was crowded, and something smelled delicious.

“Hollander! Yes, bitch! Get over here!”

J.J. towered over everyone in the room. He was six feet, seven inches and over two hundred and fifty pounds of pure muscle. He had very dark skin and a thick French accent. The contrast between J.J. and Shane, physically, was almost comical. Shane stood a full ten inches shorter than him, and weighed about seventy pounds less.

J.J. was also loud. And he loved to talk. He held court no matter what room he was in. He was French and fashionable and loved food and wine—the perfect Montreal celebrity. Everyone loved him.

Aside from a couple of his teammates, Shane didn’t know anyone at the party, but he certainly recognized a few movie stars in the crowd. Shane was pretty famous—extremely so, on the hockey scale—but even he was a little star struck in this company.

He made his way to the bar, where the bartender seemed to have no problem serving people well after closing. The slim, attractive, dark-skinned man was making elaborate cocktails for the all-star guests.

“Can I get a beer?” Shane asked him, in French. “Whatever you have on tap is fine.”

“Shane Hollander can have whatever he wants here,” the man said with a sexy little smile. He poured Shane a beer and rested it on a coaster in front of him.

“Thanks,” Shane said. He slid a ten-dollar bill across the bar.

The bartender held up his hands and said, “On the house.”

“Oh. Well, you keep it then.”

The man shook his head, smiling. “It’s an honor.”

Shane smiled back and stuck out his hand. “Shane,” he said. “Please.”

“Maxime,” the man said, shaking his hand.

“Nice to meet you, Maxime. Are you having a good night?”

“This crowd? Are you kidding? Rose Landry is here, man!”

“Seriously?” Shane asked. He looked over his shoulder, almost involuntarily, searching the crowd for the famous actress. He quickly turned back to Maxime when he realized what he was doing.

Maxime was grinning. Shane shrugged and grinned back. He’d love to catch a glimpse of Rose Landry, but he was sort of enjoying looking at Maxime. He decided to put some space between them before that fact became obvious.

He spent the night mingling, letting J.J. pull him around the room. He stood in small circles of people and laughed at their jokes; he didn’t make many of his own. He avoided the bar and eventually found an empty table in one corner. He was ready to leave, but he just wanted to sit for a moment.

“Please tell me you’re hungry,” a woman’s voice said. Shane looked up and saw a slim woman with dark, glossy hair and a very expensive-looking top draped over equally expensive-looking jeans.

Rose Landry.

“The chef just handed me these fritters and they look delicious, but I can’t possibly eat them all,” she said, sliding into the booth next to Shane. She set a plate on the table that was piled high with Haitian salt cod fritters. She smiled at him, took one, and popped it into her mouth. Her eyes went wide with surprise.

“Oh my god! These are so good! You have to eat some.” She belatedly raised her hand to cover her mouth as she spoke. Then she laughed at herself.

“Sorry,” she said, after she swallowed. “I’m a pig. I’m Rose, by the way,” she said, holding out her perfectly manicured hand.

Shane smiled and shook it. “Shane,” he said. “Nice to meet you. I’m a fan.”

“Well,” she said, leaning in a bit, “would you be surprised to know I’m a big fan of yours?”

“You like hockey?” Shane asked.

“I was born and raised in Michigan,” she said. “Damn right I like hockey!”

“Oh! Well…thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Eat a fritter, Shane Hollander.”

Shane lost track of time as they sat in the booth and talked over (delicious) cod fritters. Rose was easy to talk to. Surprisingly so. They bonded over descriptions of the lakeside cottages where they had each spent childhood summers. She had an older brother who had played hockey in college, and then he became an engineer. Her parents, like Shane’s, worked in government.

“Have you been to Montreal before?” Shane asked.

“Once. I was shooting a role in a super terrible FBI versus terrorist whatever movie. I can’t even remember what it was called.”

“Under Dark.”

“Oh my god. Shut up. You saw it?”

Shane shrugged, and grinned. It really had been terrible. “I fly a lot. Watch a lot of movies.”

“Thankfully it was only a small role. But I was only in Montreal for a week that time. And it was summer.”

“It’s a little different here in the winter.”

She leaned it and said, in a hushed tone that was playfully conspiratorial, “Michigan, remember? Winter can’t scare me.”

Something fluttery happened in his stomach. He felt his cheeks heat a bit, and then he asked, as smoothly as possible, “So, you gonna be in town for a while this time?”

Her smile let him know she knew exactly what he was really asking.

At the end of the night, they exchanged contact info, and made loose plans to meet for dinner whenever both of their schedules permitted. Shane left the restaurant with a little spring in his step. It had easily been the best connection he had made with a woman…ever. He liked Rose. He wanted to get to know her better. He was excited by the idea of spending more time with her.

And she was very pretty. Obviously.

But mostly Shane just loved talking to her. She was funny and she asked a lot of questions, but none of them had made Shane uncomfortable.

Shane liked a girl!

In the car, driving home, he laughed at how ridiculously high his standards were.

December 2016—Detroit

Ilya woke alone in his hotel room in… Detroit? Yes. He was in Detroit.

He glanced over at his roommate’s abandoned bed, and then at the clock. Eight thirty.

He exhaled and scrubbed his eyes before he sat up. It was no surprise that Carmichael was already up and out of the room. That guy was such a morning person, it was gross.

Ilya threw on some sweats and made his way to the Starbucks in the hotel lobby for some coffee and a breakfast sandwich. Two of his teammates, Cliff Marlow and Victor St-Simon, were sitting at a table.

“Roz! You gotta see this. You’ll shit, man!” Cliff called out.

Ilya couldn’t imagine what the hell would be that interesting to him. He made his way over to the table and Victor held out his phone for him to see. There was a headline that read, Is Rose Landry dating NHL star Shane Hollander?

“No,” was Ilya’s immediate reaction. He hoped it sounded more dismissive to his teammates than shocked.

“Right?” Cliff laughed. “She’s, like, a super-giant movie star! How the fuck did he even meet her during the hockey season?”

“She’s been filming a movie in Montreal,” Victor read. “They met at a mutual friend’s party…according to unnamed sources.”

Ilya snorted.

“There are pictures,” Victor said. “Look.”

He held his phone out again, and Ilya grabbed it. He scrolled through four paparazzi photos of Shane having dinner with the gorgeous, dark-haired movie star. In one of them Shane was laughing.

Ilya scowled and handed the phone back to Victor.

“Probably nothing,” he said.

January 2017—Boston

It wasn’t nothing. As the weeks went on, more and more paparazzi photos of Shane and Rose Landry together were hitting the internet. Photos of the two of them walking together, smiling at each other, leaving restaurants together, kissing each other.

On the cheek. Just on the cheek. It could still be nothing.

Ilya turned up the resistance on his stationary bike. What did he care, anyway? Why shouldn’t Hollander be dating a beautiful woman? Rozanov had slept with a beautiful woman two nights ago. And another one the night before that.

The thing was… Hollander didn’t do that. Rozanov assumed Hollander must have sex with people who weren’t him, but there was no evidence of it. He didn’t want to think about it too much either way.

He had definitely never known Hollander to go on consecutive dates with a woman. To be seen with a woman often enough for the press to notice.

Hollander had a girlfriend.

Maybe Hollander was in love.

Ilya pushed himself on the bike until his thighs screamed in protest. He stopped, and took a long haul from his water bottle.

He knew this ridiculous thing between them wasn’t going to last forever. It was just…convenient. So maybe it was over now. So what?

Boston was playing in Montreal next week. The week after that was the All-Star Game. Would Hollander just…ignore him?

As Ilya was exiting the team gym, he stubbed his toe on one of the other bikes. He bellowed a string of Russian profanity and hurled his water bottle at the wall. He tried to control his breathing as he watched the water seep into the black and gold carpet.

“Jesus,” Cliff said as he stepped off his treadmill. “What the fuck’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing,” Ilya growled. “Stubbed my toe.” He left the room in a hurry, not bothering to pick up the water bottle.

Hayley, he thought to himself. He would text Hayley and see if she was doing anything tonight. He liked Hayley. She was fun, and she had dark hair.

And freckles.

One week later—Montreal

When Shane’s phone buzzed, an hour after the game against Boston ended, he had expected it to be Ilya.

It was Rose.

Come out with us tonight. We’ll be at Ultraviolet.

Shane felt a confusing mixture of anxiety and relief sweep over him. He hadn’t been sure what to say to Ilya, if he had texted him. If he had wanted to…see him.

Because Shane had a girlfriend now. Sort of.

And his girlfriend wanted him to come to a club with her and her friends. Shane hated nightclubs. He never allowed himself to have more than a couple of drinks, which was not nearly enough for him to be comfortable on a dance floor.

But his girlfriend—his gorgeous, movie star girlfriend—wanted him to go out dancing with her. And that was a thing that boyfriends did. Right?

And if he had to endure his teammates teasing him about dating her—last week Shane had found a giant bouquet of about sixty roses in his locker room stall, which was a very expensive and stupid prank—then he should at least try to enjoy himself.

OK, he texted back. What time?

Ilya was absolutely not going to text Hollander. Not a chance.

What he was going to do instead, apparently, was sulk around his hotel room and snap at his roommate for no reason at all.

“Hey!” Ryan Carmichael said, after the umpteenth undeserved bitchy comment from Ilya. “Fuck you! What’s your problem, anyway?”

Ilya sighed, and sat himself on the end of his bed. “Nothing. Fuck this. I need to get laid. Let’s go out.”

“Out where?”

Ilya swept his hand in the direction of the large window. “We’re in fucking Montreal! We find a club! Come on.”

Carmichael blinked at him, then smiled. “Fucking right, man! I’m gonna text Victor and Cliff.”

After six very successful NHL seasons, Shane had gained a reputation for two things:

1. Being a natural leader and an outstanding playmaker, and;

2. Being absolutely no fun at all.

Shane felt this second accusation was unfair. He was plenty fun. He could relax with a beer and joke around. He was social. He…

He hated clubs. That was something he couldn’t deny. He didn’t dance, he didn’t like crowds, and he didn’t like the pressure to pick up women. At least tonight he didn’t have to worry about that last thing.

He found Rose and her friends in a VIP area at the club. She stood up and kissed him quickly in greeting. He recognized most of the people there. Two of them were her costars from the X-Squad movie: Miles and Jiya. Miles was a young actor with a massive fan base, due to his work as a teenager on a popular television drama. He was extremely attractive, with light brown skin, perfectly groomed stubble, and the most incredible eyes Shane had ever seen. They were gray—so pale they were almost silver. He was looking effortlessly gorgeous in a long-sleeve black top, slim-fitting dark gray pants, and a black knit hat.

Shane nodded at him awkwardly and received a slow, absurdly sexy smile in return. Shane looked away quickly and moved to sit next to Rose.

“Good game tonight,” Rose said.

“Oh, thanks. You watched?”

She smiled apologetically. “I wish. We just finished filming for the day a couple of hours ago. I was checking the score on my phone, though!”

She took his hand and squeezed it, then pulled it over to rest on her knee. It was probably as natural as anything for her, but Shane felt like everyone was just staring at their joined hands.

What is wrong with me?

A server appeared and Shane ordered a beer. Everyone else seemed to be drinking vodka. He was definitely not going to get into that shit tonight.

They sat and drank and talked for over an hour as the club filled up. Rose’s voice was noticeably hoarse from shouting over the music. Shane had barely said ten words; he just enjoyed listening to everyone else and laughing when someone made a joke. When he couldn’t follow the conversation, he sipped his second beer, watched the dance floor, and stole a few glances at Miles.

Which was dumb because Shane was here with Rose Landry.

“Come dance with me!” Rose exclaimed suddenly. She stood up and tried to pull Shane with her.

“Oh,” Shane said. “No… I, uh…”

“Come on. I never get to dance!”

“That is a lie,” Miles laughed.

“Well, I want to dance with Shane.”

Shane heard Miles say something that sounded a lot like “That makes two of us,” but he couldn’t be sure over the music.

Shane surrendered and put his beer bottle on the table. He stood and allowed Rose to lead him to the dance floor.

Shane really, really needed to up his fashion game. Hanging out with Rose and her friends made him feel like a slob, and being on the dance floor only emphasized how uninspired his wardrobe was. He had made an effort tonight, but his deep plum polo and dark blue pants seemed kind of basic. His sneakers were nice, though.

Rose put her arms around his neck and they danced. Or, at least, she danced. She was stunning, and she moved to the music with so much carefree joy. Shane was mesmerized.

Most of the girls on the dance floor seemed more like… Rozanov’s type. Or, at least, what he was pretty sure Rozanov was into, based on photos that Shane had seen on the internet completely by accident and not because he sometimes did image searches for Ilya Rozanov. He could easily imagine Ilya flirting with any one (or two) of the array of blonde, tanned girls with dark eyelashes and shimmery lips.

He wondered what Ilya was doing tonight. Had he been…disappointed…that they hadn’t hooked up?

Was Shane disappointed?

Rose flicked her dark hair around and laughed. “I love this song!” she yelled.

Shane smiled back. He had no idea what song it was. He kept his fingers on Rose’s waist—barely touching—as she closed her eyes and slid a hand down his chest.

Shane understood what was supposed to be happening here. He was supposed to be…escalating things. Touching her, teasing her. Making her want him. And then they would kiss and press closer together and…

So why wasn’t he?

Ilya headed straight for the dance floor as soon as they entered the club. It was late and the place was packed. A quick scan of the place told him that there were plenty of good options. Plenty of gorgeous girls who could take his mind off Shane stupid Hollander.

Wait.

It was impossible not to spot Rose Landry on the dance floor. Even in this crowd, she stood out.

And it only took him a second longer to realize the man she had her arms around—who had his hands on her waist—was Shane Hollander.

Fuck it.

Ilya moved purposefully to the other side of the dance floor. He found a girl inside a minute who was happy to press her body against his. By the next song, she had her tongue in his mouth.

He wondered if Hollander saw him.

Miles joined them on the dance floor, and Shane dropped his hands from Rose’s waist. Rose turned and smiled at Miles, and danced with him for a while. Miles kept looking over her shoulder at Shane. There almost seemed to be a hint of invitation in his eyes.

Shane looked away uncomfortably. He stood on the dance floor, just barely swaying, with his arms hanging limp at his sides. Now that Miles was here, he could probably slip away. Go back to the VIP area. Maybe even go home.

His eyes landed on a man he was sure was Victor St-Simon, a player for Boston. He was smiling at a girl he was dancing with. Shane frowned and glanced around. He spotted Ryan Carmichael. And Cliff Marlow.

And Ilya Rozanov.

Ilya was dancing with a girl. His head and shoulders towered over most of the crowd. Shane moved through the sea of dancers toward him without even realizing he was doing it.

He got close enough to see the way the heat of the room was causing Ilya’s damp hair to curl even tighter than usual, and the way his skin glistened the same way it had during the game. But the games didn’t have lighting like this; at the games, the music wasn’t pounding and Ilya’s body wasn’t writhing and the whole room didn’t scream sex.

Ilya had on a V-neck T-shirt that was almost transparent, despite being a dark color. Sometimes a light would hit him just right and Shane could see the outline of his bear tattoo, and the glint of his gold chain. The girl he was dancing with had her back to him, and she seemed to be grinding her ass into his crotch. Ilya was watching her, eyes hooded, lips parted. Shane watched as he bit down on his lower lip and closed his eyes before bending his head to kiss her neck. She turned and leaned up and kissed him. It was a wild, filthy kiss. She had her hands up the front of his shirt.

And Shane felt sick. He needed to leave.

He realized, suddenly, as if waking from a dream, that he was standing alone in the middle of a dance floor…not dancing. Just…staring. At Ilya.

He couldn’t let Ilya notice him.

Ilya pulled away from the kiss and smiled at his very willing partner. She was a good kisser. She had a tongue piercing. He liked that.

He glanced around the club, wondering where the best dark corner was to—

Holy fuck.

When his gaze landed on Shane Hollander, Shane’s eyes went wide.

Had Shane just been…watching him?

Ilya couldn’t resist pushing it. He gave him what he believed to be his sexiest smile, and bent down to whisper in the girl’s ear. “Should we take this somewhere else?”

He never took his eyes off Shane.

“Sorry,” she said, surprising him. “Not tonight, babe. I’m here with my boyfriend. He likes to watch me. It turns him on. But I’m leaving with him.”

The fuck? “Your…boyfriend?” He looked around nervously.

She laughed. “Relax. He’s not gonna hit you. He likes it, like I said.” She kissed his cheek, turned, and left him.

And Shane was gone.

Furious, and now even more desperately in need of release than he had been before he’d left the hotel, Ilya stormed off the dance floor and grabbed Victor by the arm. “I’m leaving.”

“With that girl? Right on, man.”

Ilya didn’t answer him.

Back at the hotel, Ilya jerked off in the shower before throwing himself angrily onto his bed.

He couldn’t sleep. He curled on his side and watched the minutes tick by on the alarm clock beside the bed.

Stupid fucking Shane Hollander. Stupid Rose Landry.

Oh god, what was wrong with him? Why did he care? Ilya had been ready to let that weird girl with the kinky boyfriend do whatever she wanted to with him. What did it matter what Shane was doing when Ilya didn’t require him?

Except Shane had been watching him make out with that girl. And Shane had looked so fucking good. Not, like, clothes-wise; Shane’s wardrobe was as boring as he was. But something about seeing Shane Hollander in that environment had been…exhilarating.

What if Ilya had been able to get closer to him? Would Shane have danced with him, right there in that packed Montreal nightclub? Would he have let Ilya push that stupid polo up and run his hands over the hard lines of his abs? Would he have tilted his head back and sucked in a breath when Ilya kissed his neck?

No. It would never have happened. Shane was with Rose now. And he and Ilya couldn’t even appear to be friendly with each other, let alone be spotted grinding against each other in a club.

He pinched the cross that hung around his neck and rubbed it with his thumb as he scowled into the dark room. He had never in his life been angry about someone sleeping with someone else. He was largely indifferent to most things.

Was it just that Ilya liked his sex with a generous helping of danger, and Shane provided both? Or was he just being childish about having to share his favorite toy with a gorgeous movie star?

Somewhere, buried deep in his brain, there was a third reason that was screaming for attention.

Ilya ignored it.